Part 4

_Vernacular Terms_. _Fashionable Sense_. Age An infirmity which nobody owns. Buying Ordering goods without present purpose of payment. Conscience Something to swear by. Courage Fear of man. Cowardice Fear of God. Day Night. Debt A necessary evil. Decency Keeping up appearances. Dinner Supper. Dressed Half-naked. Duty Doing as other people do. Economy (Obsolete.) Enthusiasm Religion in earnest. Fortune The chief-good. Friend (Meaning not known.) Home Every body’s house but one’s own. Honour The modern Moloch, worshipped with licentious rites and human victims. Knowing Expert in folly and vice. Life Destruction of body and soul. Love (Meaning not known.) Modest Sheepish. New Delightful. Night Day. Nonsense Polite conversation. Old Insufferable. Pay Only applied to visits. Play Serious work. Protection Keeping a mistress. Religion Occupying a seat in some church or chapel. Spirit Contempt of decorum and conscience. Style Splendid extravagance. Thing (the) Any thing but what a man should be. Time Only regarded in music and dancing. Truth (Meaning uncertain). Virtue Any agreeable quality. Vice Only applied to servants and horses. Undress Complete clothing. Wicked Irresistibly agreeable. Work A vulgarism.

I am far from pretending to have assigned the precise significations in which the words above cited are employed by people of Fashion. Perhaps I have done as much towards fixing the sense, as will be expected of one who cannot pretend to be perfectly in their confidence. In fact, the transmutation of terms is an operation to which this people are most devoutly addicted. It is daily making some advances among them; and keeps pace with the progress of their ideas, from the correct and authentic notions of truth and virtue, to those loose and spurious ones by which they are superseded.

In proof of this statement, I need only adduce those phrases in which they are accustomed to pronounce the eulogium of their deceased associates.

For example,—Is reference made to an unthinking profligate who has lately been hurried from the world? His vices are glanced at, and cursorily condemned: but still it is affirmed, that, with all his faults, he always _meant well_; he had _a good heart __at the bottom_; and he was _nobody’s enemy but his own_.

And for whom is this apology offered, and this praise indirectly solicited? For the man who, if he ever meant any thing, meant nothing more or better, than to gratify his lusts, pursue his vicious pleasures, drink his wine, shake his dice, shuffle his cards; and thus waste his existence, and destroy his soul. Of such a man it is gravely affirmed, that—_he always meant well_.

And of whom is it said, that he had _a good heart_?—Of the man who rarely manifested, through the whole of his life, any other symptoms than those which indicate a bad one. His mouth was full of cursing and bitterness; his humour was choleric and revengeful; his feet moved swift to shed blood; there was no conscience in his bosom, and no fear of God before his eyes; and yet, because he was occasionally charitable, and habitually convivial, no doubt is entertained but that—_he had a good heart at the bottom_.

Lastly, _he_ is said to have been _nobody’s enemy but his own_, who has wasted the earnings of an industrious ancestor, and bequeathed beggary and shame to his innocent descendants. The wretch has distressed his family by his prodigality, and corrupted thousands by his example; and yet, because he has been the dupe of his lusts, and fallen a martyr to his vices, he is pronounced to have been—_nobody’s enemy but his own_.

These instances will serve to throw some light upon the sort of idiom employed by people of Fashion; and the manner in which they have wrested expressions of no little importance, from their natural and legitimate signification.

But before I quit the consideration of their _language_, I think it my duty to point out another peculiarity; of which, to the best of my knowledge, no satisfactory account has yet been given. Whether it arise from the paucity of their words, the confusion of their ideas, or any other cause distinct from each of these, so it is, that they have but _one_ term by which they are accustomed to express their strong emotions both of pleasure and pain. On this _term_ you will find them ringing perpetual changes; and, strange to say, it is to be heard, under one or other of its grammatical inflections, {104} in almost every sentence which falls from their lips. The master has recourse to it in scolding his servants, the officer in reprimanding his men. The traveller employs it in recounting his adventures, and the man of pleasure in describing his intrigues. It is heard in the house, and in the field; in moments of seriousness, and of levity; in expressions of praise, and of blame. In short, it is used on occasions the most dissimilar, under impressions the most contradictory, and for purposes the most opposite; and is, in fact, the _sine quâ non_ of every energetic and emphatical period.

Now it happens, unfortunately, that this _catholicon_ in Fashionable phraseology is, of all terms, that to which sober Christians annex the most awful ideas; and from the use of which they as scrupulously abstain, as they do from that of the Great Being whose vengeance it so tremendously expresses. And it may be worthy of consideration, whether this familiar and unfeeling employment, by people of Fashion, of a term which imports _infernal punishment_, does not strengthen those doubts which have been already suggested, of their real belief in a place of future torment.

It ought not at the same time to be overlooked, that, in this respect, they bear a close resemblance to the vulgarest part of the community; and it would furnish a subject of curious investigation, why two classes in society, respectively the highest and the lowest, should exhibit so striking an agreement in a material branch of language. I know it has been said, that extremes meet; and the fact before us is so much proof that the remark is just: but that by no means solves the difficulty. For, after all, the question returns upon us, _why_ such a fact should exist? I confess, for my own part, I know no answer that can be given to it; and I very much wish that some one of their number would undertake to explain their real motives for courting a resemblance in _one_ respect with that description of society, from which they make it their pride to differ in every _other_.

CHAP. VI.

DRESS—AMUSEMENTS.

THERE are, in the _Dress_ of this people, many singularities, upon which, he who wished to say every thing that could be said, might say a great deal. The peculiarity which a stranger would be most apt to remark, is that of their striving to be as unlike as possible to the rest of the world. This appears, indeed, to be the parent of almost every other peculiarity; and certainly gives birth to many changes not a little ridiculous and prejudicial.

It being a sort of fundamental maxim with them, that superiority consists in dissimilitude, they become engaged in a perpetual competition with the world at large, and to a certain degree with each other. In order to maintain this struggle for pre-eminence, they are compelled to vary the modes and materials of their dress in all the ways which a fanciful imagination can suggest. It happens, through some strange infatuation, that those who affect to despise the man or woman of Fashion, yet ape their dress and air with the most impertinent and vexatious perseverance. What is to be done in this case?—Similitude is not to be endured. In order therefore to throw out their pursuers, these monopolizers of the mode are compelled to run into such eccentricities, as nothing could justify or palliate, but the distress to which they are reduced. If, for example, short skirts and low capes are copied by the herd of imitators, the Fashionables seek their remedy in the opposite extreme; their skirts are drawn down to the calves of their legs, and their capes pulled over their ears with as much solemnity and dispatch, as if their existence depended upon the measure. So if full petticoats and high kerchiefs are adopted by the misses of the crowd, the dressing-chambers of Fashion are all bustle and confusion:—the limbs are stripped, and the bosom laid bare, though the east wind may be blowing at the time; and coughs, rheumatisms, and consumptions, be upon the wings of every blast.

This rage for dissimilitude in the affairs of the _wardrobe_, is allowed an indefinite scope. Unfortunately, as far as I can learn, there are no determinate points, beyond which it would be esteemed indecent or imprudent to indulge it. The consequence is, that the _groom_ and the _gentleman_ may be often mistaken for each other; and he who is recognised to-day as a _man of Fashion_, may to-morrow be confounded with _one of the people_.

I confess I have always regarded this part of their conduct as an impeachment of their political wisdom. I should have thought _à priori_, that a people who are so jealous of their pre-eminence in society, would not have overlooked the degree in which dress contributes to uphold it. Many a Fashionable man must depend for the whole of his estimation, upon the cut of his coat, and the selection of his wardrobe. A frivolous or preposterous taste may therefore prove fatal to the only sort of reputation which it was in his power to obtain. But besides, an interchange of dress between people of Fashion and those whom they consider their inferiors, may eventually produce very serious mischiefs. The distinctions of rank and condition are manifestly matters of external regulation, and consequently cannot be kept up without a due attention to external appearances. He therefore who makes himself vulgar or ridiculous, is guilty of an act of self-degradation; and the fault will be his own, if he is displaced or despised; since he has renounced that appropriate costume, which proclaimed at once his station in society, and his determination to maintain it.

The fair-sex appear also on their part to set all limits and restraints at defiance. They seem to feel themselves at perfect liberty to follow the prevailing mode, whatever that mode may be. The consequence is, that _modesty_ is often the last thing considered by the young, and _propriety_ as completely neglected by the old. And this latter circumstance may serve to account in some measure for the little respect which is said to be paid to _age_ in the Fashionable World. To judge from the histories of all nations, it seems impossible, that length of days, if accompanied with those characteristics which denote and become it, should not excite spontaneous veneration. But if the shrivelled arm must be bound in ribbands and bracelets, if the withered limbs must be wrapped in muslins and gauzes, and the wrinkled face be decorated with ringlets and furbelows, the silly veteran waves the privilege of her years; and since she disgusts the grave, without captivating the gay, she must not be surprized if she meets with respect from neither.

A fondness for _amusements_ is one of the strongest characteristics of this people.—They may almost be said to live for little else. They pass the whole of that short day which they allow themselves, in making arrangements for spending the ensuing night. Indeed, their preference of night to day is such, that they seem to consider the latter as having no other value than as it leads to the former, and affords an opportunity of preparing for its enjoyment. And hence I suppose it is, that such multitudes among them dine by candle-light, and go to bed by day-light.

This passion for diversions renders the _Sunday_ particularly irksome to persons of any sort of _ton_ in the Fashionable World. A dose of piety in the morning is well enough, though it is somewhat inconvenient to take it quite so early; but then it wants an opera, or a play, or a dance, to carry it off. There are indeed some _esprit-forts_ among the ladies, who are trying with no little success to redeem a portion of the Sabbath from the insufferable bondage of the Bible and the sermon-book; and to naturalize that continental distribution of the day, which gives the morning to devotion, and the evening to dissipation. It is but justice to the gentlemen to say, that they discover no backwardness in supporting a measure so consonant to all their wishes. It is therefore not impossible that some considerable changes in this respect may soon be brought about. That good-humoured legislature which has allowed a Sunday newspaper, {116} will perhaps not always refuse a Sunday opera, or play. People of Fashion will then no longer have to torture their invention for expedients to supply the absence of their diurnal diversions. They may then let their tradesmen go quietly to their parish-churches, instead of sending for them to wear away the sabbath-hours in some supervacaneous employment. In short, Sunday may be set at liberty from its primitive bondage, and exhibit as happy a union of morning solemnity and evening licentiousness, as it has ever displayed among the dissolute adherents of Fashionable Christianity.

But to return:—The rage for amusements {119} is so strong in this people, that it seems to supersede all exercise of judgment in the choice and the conduct of them. To go every where, see every thing, and know every body, are, in their estimation, objects of such importance, that, in order to accomplish them, they subject themselves to the greatest inconveniences, and commit the very grossest absurdities. Hence they will rush in crowds, to shine where they cannot be seen, to dance where they cannot move, and to converse with friends whom they cannot approach; and, what is more, though they cannot breathe for the pressure, and can scarcely live for the heat, yet they call this—enjoyment.

Nor does this passion suffer any material abatement by the progress of time. Many veterans visit, to the last, the haunts of polite dissipation; they lend their countenance to those dramas of vanity in which they can no longer act a part; and show their incurable attachment to the pleasures of this world, by their unwillingness to decline them. The infirmities which attend upon the close of life are certainly designed to produce other habits; and it should seem, that when every thing announces an approaching dissolution, the amusements of the drawing-room might give place to the employments of the closet. Persons, however, of this description are of another mind; and as every difficulty on the score of teeth, hoariness, and wrinkles, can be removed by the happy expedients of ivory, hair-caps, and cosmetics, there is certainly no _physical_ objection to their continuing among their Fashionable acquaintance, till they are wanted in another world.

I cannot illustrate this part of my subject better than by presenting my readers with the following Ode on the Spring, supposed to have been written by a man of Fashion; it expresses, with so much exactness, the sentiments and taste of that extraordinary people, that it will stand in the place of a thousand observations upon their character.

ODE ON THE SPRING.

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY A MAN OF FASHION.

I.

LO! where the party-giving dames, Fair Fashion’s train, appear; Disclose the long-expected games, And wake the modish year: The opera-warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the actor’s note, The dear-bought harmony of Spring; While, beaming pleasure as they fly, Bright flambeaus through the murky sky Their welcome fragrance fling.

II.

Where’er the rout’s full myriads close The staircase and the door, Where’er thick files of belles and beaus Perspire through ev’ry pore: Beside some faro-table’s brink, With me the Muse shall _stand_ and think, (Hemm’d sweetly in by squeeze of state,) How vast the comfort of the crowd, How condescending are the proud, How happy are the great!

III.

Still is the toiling hand of Care, The drays and hacks repose; But, hark, how through the vacant air The rattling clamour glows! The wanton Miss and rakish Blade, Eager to join the masquerade, Through streets and squares pursue their fun: Home in the dusk some bashful skim; Some, ling’ring late, their motley trim Exhibit to the sun.

IV.

To Dissipation’s playful eye, Such is the life for man; And they that halt, and they that fly, Should have no other plan: Alike the busy and the gay Should sport all night till break of day, In Fashion’s varying colours drest; Till seiz’d for debt through rude mischance, Or chill’d by age, they leave the dance, In gaol or dust—to rest.

V.

Methinks I hear, in accents low, Some sober quiz reply, Poor child of Folly! what art thou? A Bond-Street Butterfly! Thy choice nor Health nor Nature greets, No taste hast thou of vernal sweets, Enslav’d by noise, and dress, and play: Ere thou art to the country flown, The sun will scorch, the Spring be gone,— Then leave the town in May.

CHAP. VII.

HAPPINESS OF THE PEOPLE ESTIMATED.

I TRUST my reader is by this time sufficiently acquainted with the general outline of Fashionable life: it would only be accumulating observations unnecessarily to enter further into the subject: I shall therefore devote the present chapter to a brief investigation of the state of happiness among a people who, it must be observed, claim to be considered—the _happiest of their species_.

Happiness is, as moralists agree, a relative expression; and indicates the excess of the aggregate of good over that of evil in any given condition. The foundation of happiness therefore must be traced to the ideas which those, upon whose condition the question turns, are accustomed to entertain, of good and evil. So that if we wished to ascertain the amount of happiness in a life of Fashion, we must make our calculation out of those things, which constitute respectively good and evil in a Fashionable estimation. I have had occasion to observe before, that a Fashionable life is a life of sense; consequently all the sources of happiness in such a condition must be confined to the pleasures of sense. Now, it must be considered, that the pains of sense are at least as numerous as its pleasures; and that, by a law of Providence subject to very few exceptions, those who will have the one, must take their proportion of the other with them.

This observation is abundantly confirmed by what occurs in the experience of the parties under consideration. The pleasures which men of Fashion derive from the gratification of their animal appetites at the table, the gaming-house, and the brothel, have a very ample set-off in the inconveniences which they suffer from arthritic, nervous, and a thousand other, painful and retributive complaints. Nor are the gay and dissipated of the other sex exempted from the same contingency of constitutional suffering. Beside the common lot of human nature, they have a class of evils of their own procuring; and, by excesses as imprudent as they are immoral, they bring upon themselves a variety of diseases, for which neither a name nor a remedy can be found. There are those, it is true, who avoid much of this inconvenience, by mixing some discretion with their folly, and setting some bounds to their favourite gratifications: but then it is to be remembered, that these are restraints which render persons of licentious minds singularly uneasy; and they may therefore be considered as administering to pain, nearly in proportion as they abridge indulgence.

But supposing that we were to throw these severer items out of the calculation: there would still remain evils enough in a Fashionable condition, to keep the scale from preponderating on the side of pleasure. To shine in a ball-room, is, no doubt, a high satisfaction; but then to be outshone by another, (which is just as likely to happen,) is at least as great a mortification: to be invited to _many_ modish parties, is really delightful; but then to know those who are invited to _more_ than ourselves, is certainly vexatious: to find one’s-self surrounded by people of the first Fashion, is charming; but then to be dying with heat all the time, is something in the opposite scale; to wear a coat or a head-dress of the newest invention, is indeed a pleasure of the highest order; but then to see, by accident, articles of the same mode on the back of a man-milliner, or the head of a lady’s maid, is a species of vexation not easily endured. An opera, a play, a party, a night passed at a dance, or at a cassino, or a faro-table, are all events, to be sure, of the happiest occurrence; but then, to be disappointed of _one_, makes a deeper impression on the side of pain, than to be gratified with _three_, does on that of pleasure: and disappointments will happen, where many objects are pursued, and where the concurrence of many instruments is necessary to their accomplishment. A drunken coachman, a broken pannel, a sick horse, a saucy footman, a mistaken message, a dull play, indifferent company, a head-ach, a heart-burn, an epidemical disease, or the dread of it, a death in the family, Sunday, Fast-day, Passion week, and a thousand other provoking casualties, either deprive these entertainments of their power of pleasing, or even set them wholly aside. I should only weary my reader were I to lay before him in detail half the catalogue of those minor distresses which embarrass the idea of a modish life: he must however perceive, from the little which has been said, that every pleasure has its countervailing pain; and that every sacrifice to diversion and splendour has its correspondent chastisement in vexation and disgrace.

Hitherto those principles have been assumed as the basis of calculation, upon which people of Fashion have _some_ advantages in their favour; but there is another ground upon which (to say the whole truth) it ought to be put, and on which all the advantages are _against_ them.